


On Dog Lords and Demons

by Maybemightbe



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Carver is a sarcastic sourpuss, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Hawke wears the bathrobe, I promise, Justice is a bad influence, M/M, Porn With Plot, Templar Carver Hawke, Varric is sneaky, but actually a great guy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:02:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25200577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybemightbe/pseuds/Maybemightbe
Summary: The first time Carver comes by the clinic to deliver supplies, Anders is confused. Then annoyed.“Why would Hawke sendyou?” he asks, digging through the pouch Carver had practically thrown at him. The gifts are modest; two vials of lyrium and four rolls of clean bandages.Or: the one where Carver starts bringing much-needed lyrium to the clinic and Anders never stood a Maker-damned chance.
Relationships: Anders/Carver Hawke, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 57





	On Dog Lords and Demons

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a straight-to-the-goods porno, but I guess I'm incapable of not throwing in some sappy Machiavellian drama beforehand, and I feel very strongly that Templar!Carver deserves to be properly cherished like the sad Lancelot that he is.
> 
> Most of this has been written and will go up soon.
> 
> This fic starts during Part 3 and continues through DA:I (major timeline events only, no real crossover).

The first time Carver comes by the clinic to deliver supplies, Anders is confused. Then annoyed.

“Why would Hawke send _you_?” he asks, digging through the pouch Carver had practically thrown at him. The gifts are modest; two vials of lyrium and four rolls of clean bandages. 

Carver scowls and shrugs. They've barely seen each other over the last three years, ever since Carver joined the Order. His boyish good looks have aged appallingly well, drawing more than a few appreciative glances from the patients and volunteers bustling about the clinic. 

Their staring grates on Anders like a Qunari hearing the Chant. _So easily fooled_ , he thinks scathingly.

At least Carver hadn't worn his Templar armour— _thank the Maker_ —through the streets of Darktown, forgoing the steel for a simple white vest and loose pants. Not that it makes him any less intimidating in close quarters. Carver stands a whole head taller than most of the people here, and he looks like he could crush a good number of them with his bare hands. Including Anders, much to his chagrin.

“Take it or don’t,” Carver growls, jaw twitching.

He ducks out before Anders can muster a good retort.

***

It keeps happening. Carver appears at his door every three days with an assortment of goods. Lyrium, elfroot, half-used injury kits—everything Anders desperately needs to keep the clinic operating smoothly.

It's unsettling, but Anders isn't in a position to refuse Hawke's generosity. He knows that, Maker help him. Through gritted teeth—he knows. 

Though Justice still simmers whenever Carver comes near, itching to lash out. Anders learns to turn his back whenever Carver walks in; makes himself focus on whatever desperate task is on hand. It's better for the both of them.

And Carver, whether by instinct or bad manners, doesn't speak to him either. He deposits his deliveries by the door and retreats just as quickly, and for weeks they follow this perfunctory routine.

Until they don't.

***

It's late and Anders is awake. It's always late when a patient dies. 

He can usually tell at a glance when his magic won't suffice. It doesn't always prevent him from trying. He knew this particular woman—she'd been a Circle mage in Ferelden many years ago, though after his own time there. Escaped across the Sea during the Blight like so many others, only to find nothing but Lowtown alleys and drunks in Kirkwall. 

He pulls a sheet over her head and rests a palm over her eyes. He doesn't know what she'd want him to say, so he gives her his silence.

Carver's heavy, familiar footfalls echo in the alley outside and pause at the clinic's entrance. Anders has his back to the doors but he can hear the deep rumble of Carver's voice, followed by a light giggle. One of Anders' assistants.

"Nora," he calls without turning around. "Shouldn't you be checking on Gereon?"

"Yes, of course!" she says and scurries off.

Anders can feel Carver watching him now, loitering. Justice roils at the intrusion, close to the surface after so many hours of futile spellwork. But Anders is too tired to indulge its hunger for an argument. _She was always going to die. We both knew it._

"Don't you ever take a break?" Carver drawls into the silence. "Get some fresh air, at least. I swear the stink in here must kill half the poor bastards who walk in."

Justice wrests control before Anders can react.

" **Templar,"** it says with his mouth, turning and contorting his face in its fury. **"We abide your presence because Hawke sends you**. **But you are not welcome here.** "

Its voice rattles the rafters above, scaring off a few pigeons and a century's worth of dust. Carver recoils in disgust, and Anders squeezes his eyes shut. He shoves the spirit back down. _Not here._

When he looks up again the doors are swinging closed, Carver marching away on the other side.

 **Straight back to the Gallows,** Justice smoulders from below.

Of course. It doesn't matter how charming Carver is around the others. ( _Around Nora—beautiful, young Nora._ His stomach churns.) Or how casually Carver dresses for these Darktown errands. He's the enemy, a Templar, and he's going right back to oppressing and terrorizing innocent people.

Anders sweeps up the bag Carver left by the door. The contradiction makes him nauseous, but he needs the lyrium if he's going to do better.

He _has_ to do better.

***

“Hawke, if you’re going to cheat, you should at least _try_ to be subtle,” Aveline sighs, tossing her cards down on the sticky table. “I’m out.”

Hawke grins sheepishly from his vantage point over Fenris’ shoulder. The tavern is loud and crowded, and Hawke’s been using every passing stranger as an excuse to skootch closer to the elf, one arm flung casually over the back of Fenris’ chair.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, backing away. For all the good it does—Fenris just tilts his hand so that Hawke can still read his cards, face pure stone.

Aveline rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. Isabela cackles. “Another round for Big Girl!"she shouts towards the bar. "And for the love birds!"

Anders hides a grimace in his cup. Some venomous mood has been rising unbidden within him all night. He throws his cards down on top of Aveline’s. 

Varric whistles. "Five high pairs—you sure you know how this game works, Blondie?"

"I need to be getting back," Anders says, ignoring the dwarf's inquisitive look. He scrapes his chair back from the table.

Isabela pouts and Hawke leans forward, sobering just enough to fix Anders with a look of tragic concern. 

Heat rises to Anders' cheeks at the sudden attention. _Maker_ , _calm down._ He thought he'd gotten over this years ago.

“Everything alright?” Hawke asks, a slight slur to his words. 

Anders waves him off, eager to ward away those big brown eyes. So strikingly different from Carver's sharp blue. He's spent more time looking away from _those_ eyes than into Hawke's these last few weeks. It's so hard to believe they're related sometimes. 

“Yes, of course," he says peevishly. "Your potions are helping a great deal, though I can’t say I appreciate—”

"Potions?” Hawke frowns, bleary eyed.

“The lyrium,” Anders clarifies. He really just wants to get out of here. Out of this hot, sticky tavern with its rowdy, drunk patrons and the endless fucking flirting and nobody taking anything seriously while the whole damn city **rots around us. How can they be laughing at a time like this?**

“And the elfroot," Anders grits out, clenching his fists around the burrs of frost gathering at his fingertips. _Not here._ "The supplies you've been sending to the clinic these past two months?”

Hawke just looks confused. "I haven't been sending you anything," he says slowly, like he isn't sure if it's the right answer.

They stare at each other. 

And realization creeps over Anders like an ugly thaig crawler. 

Carver never did say where the potions were coming from.

"You're getting free potions and you don't know who's sending them?" asks Varric, quick on the take even after four dark tankards. "Now there's one mystery in Kirkwall we don't need to solve. About time."

Hawke opens his mouth to say something else, but Isabela reaches over and steals a card right out of his hand. Hawke squawks and tries to snatch it back, setting off a mad scuffle and conspicuous groping, potions all but forgotten.

Anders sighs at that, grateful for the distraction. He gives their group a little wave. “Goodnight, everyone,” he says. 

A chorus of farewells envelops him on the way out; Isabela’s drunken serenade to his bony rear echoing down the street.

***

“Where have you been getting these?”

Carver pauses. He has his back to the room, head partially bowed to slip under the low door frame. It’s very late and the clinic is quiet, just two patients sleeping behind moth-eaten curtains.

Warm candlelight slides over Carver's cheekbones as he turns around, expression cautious. “Does it matter?”

Anders takes a vial of lyrium out of the pouch on his desk and balances it in his palm.

He's thought a lot about it since that night in the Hanged Man. His first thought was that the deliveries are a trap: bait set by the Knight-Commander; Carver the eager new recruit sent to flush out the evil Apostate.

But no, Carver would never turn him in just for a pat on the back. He's too proud for that. Too leashed to his own narrow sense of honour.

He couldn't possibly be _buying_ it all either. Not on a new recruit's salary. And Anders knows for a fact that Carver never accepted any money from Hawke or their mother's estate.

The vial glows faintly against Anders' skin, pulsing to the flow of mana in his blood. He can't control it any more than he can his own heartbeat. Steady, vital.

“You're stealing these from the Gallows,” he says simply.

Carver crosses his arms over his broad chest. "Yes," he admits testily, not quite meeting Anders' eyes. "Bravo. And without any help from my brother, either—perish the thought!"

Anders ignores the quip. _Carver's_ been stealing lyrium from the Templars for his benefit—the thought hardly registers, but Justice seizes on the idea eagerly, swelling in savage delight. Goosebumps prickle at his skin. 

He's never felt Justice react this way to anyone but Hawke. The effect is a bit dizzying.

But. “You’ll get caught,” he warns, because he has to. Even as Justice crows its approval.

Carver levels him with a look of such annoyance, Anders' heart thuds at the sudden intensity of it.

“Why?" Carver bites out. "Because I'm not clever enough to do it right?” An angry flush blooms over his neck and cheeks, cresting over the tops of his smooth, bare shoulders. Anders' mouth goes dry. He follows the blush to where it disappears under Carver's low collar. 

“What do you care, anyway?” Carver continues waspishly. "One less Templar to worry about if I do. You'd count that as a win, wouldn't you?”

That pulls Anders up short. "Don't be an idiot," he snaps. _Of course I wouldn't._ "If they catch you stealing _lyrium_ they'll follow you to whoever you're bringing it to."

"I know what I'm doing. Four or five vials a week—" Carver waves a hand dismissively. "It's a bloody madhouse, Anders. No one's counting."

"That's awfully cavalier of you, given the stakes. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for a mage—"

"Please. I don't need another speech about the _plight of the mages._ Like I don't already know."

Anders shoves away from his desk. “And what exactly do you know, Templar?"

"More than you realize, _shockingly_."

"Oh! Do you know what it's like to be caged like an animal? Told you're a monster as a child? Tortured for years on end?" Anders hears his own voice rising and doesn’t stop it. "Is that why you're bringing me these?" He stalks across the room until they're nose to nose. Justice sinks its teeth into his mind. " **To clear your conscience!** "

Carver grimaces. "Piss off, demon," he snarls, and Anders' head clears as though slapped. "Why can't you take a bloody gift and leave it alone?"

"Because it doesn't make any sense!" Anders hisses, shaken.

"Well you don't have to know every damn thing, you git. Maybe I just want to help. And here you are making everything into a big drama, as usual."

The vial in Anders' fist flares with his temper. "A drama!" he seeths, shaking the lyrium in Carver's face. "Is that what this is to you? Your own _brother_ is a mage!"

"Really?” Carver snatches Anders' wrist mid-swing. The vial winks out as it tumbles from his fingers. It hits the floor and rolls between their feet. 

Carver's grip is wide and firm like a warm band of iron. He crowds Anders back across the room until he has him pinned against the desk with barely an inch between them.

“I hadn’t noticed that about him,” Carver breathes, tone honey-suckle sweet. “But it’s no surprise you have, is it? The way you’re always watching him.”

Anders flinches. Those blue eyes bore into his, daring him to deny it. Or to meet Carver halfway. Anders' whole body thrums like a sprung trap.

He yanks his hand out of Carver's grip and shoves him back as hard as he can. "Get out."

Carver stumbles. “Wait, hold on,” he starts, malice dissolving in the blink of an eye. “I didn't mean— _Void!_ " He rakes a hand through his hair. "I thought...no. Forget it.”

Anders' heart is pounding in his chest, filling his ears. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be forgetting. The deliveries, or the jab about Hawke, or the hand around him that he can still feel. 

He doesn't move for a long time after Carver flees.

***

The fury leaves him over the course of a few days. A corrosive mix of vindictiveness and confusion. It bleeds into his work: shallow wounds are mended into long scars; broken bones are set without tenderness.

He has no idea if Carver intends to return, or how he'll keep up with the clinic's needs once his lyrium supply runs out. There are too many refugees in Kirkwall. Too many sick and dying. Too much corruption and **fools, greedy murderers. Rapists and thieves. Drowning the wretched in their muck and squalor. Rot! Who will fix this place if we do not, Anders?**

His assistants give him a wide berth, muttering worriedly where they don't think he can hear.

Maybe he can ask Hawke for a loan. Or Varric.

But he banishes the thought quickly. How would he ever pay off a debt that large? 

All those weeks, Carver must have been sneaking around the Gallows in the middle of the night, risking his life to bring him those few vials at a time. Anders allows himself to dwell on the thought for just a moment, long enough for Justice to relax. Its crushing snare around his heart loosens a faint amount, and Anders' eyes flutter shut. Carver hadn't even asked for any kind of repayment.

His mind wanders to Carver pressed up against him. Breath on his neck. Lips at his ear.

Anders startles, face hot. 

And he banishes that thought, too.

***

Anders spots Carver dipping quietly into the clinic two weeks later, sliding a package under the table nearest the door. Another day and Anders' supplies would have run out.

It's such a relief, Anders speaks without thinking.

“Honestly,” he calls, making Carver jump in an absolutely satisfying manner. "You should be bringing me more than that if you're so bloody eager."

Carver breathes out sharply—the kind of noise that might prelude a laugh if he weren't such a miserable _oaf_. He looks delightfully bewildered, jaw working furiously. No doubt gearing up for some bracingly lurid comeback.

_Damn stubborn Hawkes._

"I need clean blankets as well," he drawls before Carver can gather himself. "And more ink for my writing."

Carver's eyes widen. They are very blue. Like lyrium if you catch the light just so—

"And more candles and thread," he throws in. Might as well make him squirm.

Carver nods slowly, his mouth twisting and pinching. _Yes, that's it. Smile, you massive twit._

"And new shoes." A little quirk. A spasm. "And—um. A cat."

"Okay," Carver interrupts, raising two wide hands. Anders feels an answering twitch in his wrist. "I draw the line at bringing you anything with claws." There's _definitely_ a slight smile there. An annoyingly handsome one.

Anders smirks. "Is that my only limitation?"

Carver considers him, gaze dropping to his throat. It sends a knot of anticipation spiking through Anders' gut, sudden and electrifying.

"How about you tell me what it is you want," Carver says, voice low, "and I'll tell you what I can do about it."

Heat pools under Anders' skin. That _tone_ , edged with promise; a tug just below his navel. He wants Carver kneeling naked between his legs; biting his thighs; gripping his hips.

 _Oh._ Anders swallows hard, Carver watching him with a hunger so explicit that it leaves him feeling light headed, scoured raw.

He'd wanted to strangle Carver the last time they were together. _Maker._ Now all he wants to do is slide his hands over Carver's bare chest and kiss that stupid, sour little mouth— 

"That's everything," Anders croaks, voice utterly betraying him. "Nothing else."

Carver shrugs, smirking himself now. "Whatever you say." He clicks his tongue. "I'm sure you'll have thought of a few more things by the time I get back."

Then he fucking leaves.

***

Anders does indeed think of a few things in the long days before Carver appears again. A slew of needful daydreams, of bare skin and soft gasping.

They're as terrifying as they are achingly blissful. Carver has never once strayed beyond the mild annoyance Anders first associated with him six years ago. A strapping too-young curiosity, perhaps, during those precious few seconds between Hawke introducing Anders to his family and Carver opening his mouth. Any stirrings of attraction had been instantly dispelled. 

Only Carver isn’t quite so young or blustering anymore. And Anders hasn't felt such a rush of desire for anyone in a very long time. So he indulges it, tentatively. The lust tangling in his sheets. He wakes to thoughts of Carver biting patterns in his skin and he’s quick, shamefully, to conjure the feel of it over and over and finish in a sweaty heap.

If it weren't for Justice's fraying patience, he would think of little else.

***

Three days later, Carver’s slipping under the door with a pile of fresh blankets and two half-used candles tucked under one arm. He places them on Anders' desk with an obnoxiously smug look before handing over the usual bag of supplies. 

...Actually crosses the clinic and places the leather pouch in Anders' hands, for the first time, instead of leaving it by the door or with one of his assistants.

It's very heavy. Anders pulls it open right away and finds eight vials of lyrium inside. Double the usual amount.

Justice floods him with a heady euphoria, Anders' toes curling in involuntary response. It feels good. _So_ good.

 _They'll notice this amount missing_ , Anders thinks through the fog. But he bites his tongue.

"Thank you," he says instead.

Carver shrugs, his cheeks and throat turning pink. "Bout bloody time," he quibbles mildly. "Anything else you need?" He hasn't moved away yet, still standing close enough to touch.

Anders' thoughts dissolve into mud. He slips into a dream he'd indulged in that morning: rough fingers dipping into his mouth, fist around his cock. His own fingers ache to reach out and satisfy the burning _need_ that binds him so tightly.

**Anders. The boy.**

"No. No, nothing," Anders says quickly, returning his attention to the young man on his table. Martin. He's trying not to cry but it's a near thing. Leg split open after a run-in with Lowtown’s Carta.

"Alright, lad," he says, clearing his mind. "Don't worry, it'll be over soon."

Carver watches him for a time. When he finally turns to leave, there's a reluctance in his steps that makes Anders' chest lurch. He doesn't turn around.

***

The fighting in the streets gets worse and word of the clinic spreads beyond Anders' comfortable control. He can't trace how every new patient has heard about him anymore.

Not that it matters. He's never turned anyone away before, and with the extra lyrium Carver keeps bringing him he won’t have to start.

***

The weather along the coast dips to a blustery cool on the first of Wintermarch.

Carver comes calling well past midnight, and Anders stumbles out of his private room wrapped in four layers of wool to greet him. He doesn’t need to be a healer to see the way the Templar favours his left side, even in the hazy gloom of Darktown, or how he cradles the heavy leather pouch awkwardly under one arm. 

Anders moves to intercept him, retrieving the supplies and not at all missing the wince Carver tries to smooth off his face at the jostling. The fool's wearing nothing under his fur-lined vest—coldest day of the year and he's still got to flash those arms around.

“Sit,” Anders says firmly.

Carver brushes him off. “I’m just sore from training,” he grouses. “Bugger off.” But there’s no venom in his tone, just exhaustion, and that more than anything is what convinces Anders that it's bad.

“If you don’t sit down I’ll have to hit you over the head with—” he casts around. _Maker,_ _what would even be heavy enough to knock over this big lout?_

“Your manifesto?” Carver supplies, voice tight.

Anders snorts. “If you’re lucky and I can’t find a brick first.”

“I would rather that than your whiney book,” Carver grumbles. “How many pages now, seven hundred? Nine?”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Anders says, aiming for stern despite the smile betraying him, “and it isn't going to work. Sit down.”

Carver releases a deeply aggrieved sigh and sinks gingerly onto the nearest cot. Anders pulls shut the thin curtain he has hooked over the healing space, closing them off from the rest of the clinic.

The privacy is threadbare, but a ripple of nerves courses through him at the sudden seclusion. “You’ll have to take off the jerkin,” he says without turning around, pulling at the sheet as though to smooth out invisible lines.

Carver grunts in response. Then _actually_ grunts, as though in pain. Anders turns to see him trying to reach around his back to loosen the vest’s ties, face twisted in obvious discomfort. 

“Void, Carver,” Anders says, moving behind him and batting his hand away. “What did you do? Stay still.”

Anders pulls out the ties mechanically. He’s undressed so many hundreds of patients before, often to far more revealing states than this. But his hands tremble over the fabric once it comes loose _,_ fingers curling tentatively under the padded leather, knuckles brushing bare skin. A tight curl of pleasure blooms in his gut as the vest falls to the floor.

Carver is _beautiful_. All hard muscle and endless freckles. Anders has imagined how Carver might look under his clothes ( _Maker, more than just his top half_ ), but he never factored in how warm Carver's skin would be; how Carver might lean back gently into Anders' hands, inviting them to rest fully across his bare shoulders.

He doesn't comment on the lopsided Mabari tattoo curling over Carver's left shoulder, or the raised scar that cuts through it like a jagged caterpillar. Relics of a life before this one. He's heard their stories through countless others.

The source of Carver's pain is obvious enough. He's been very badly burned down the entire right side of his back. The scarring is gnarled and recent, stretched far too tight to be natural. 

Anders has seen such afflictions before, especially among Wardens. A nasty side effect of elfroot being applied too late, after a wound has already begun to harden. Better to let time take care of it at that point, or a healer. Forcing dried skin closed is incredibly painful.

He pulls mana into his hands and sets to work.

"Ah, _fuck_." Carver shudders under Anders’ palms. They ghost over his right shoulder blade, sending pulses of heat straight into the mottled tissue. 

Loosening the skin is a slow process—a matter of endurance more than skill—and Anders is only halfway finished when he reaches for the bag of supplies Carver brought with him.

“Don’t,” Carver rasps, watching him pull out a vial of lyrium. It's the first thing either of them have said in over an hour. “That’s not for me.”

Anders uncorks the vial with his teeth and drains it in one gulp, eyes never leaving Carver’s. _The idiot martyr. The foolish, headstrong—_

A bone-deep shiver passes over him as the icy mana floods his veins. Carver watches him ride it out with dark eyes, lips parting. That flush in his cheeks returns in a rush, stretching up the back of his neck and disappearing into thick, black hair. Anders has to drag himself away from the overwhelming urge to run his fingers through it. 

He clears his throat and returns to his post, adding a bit more heat to his hands than he intends. He nearly chokes at the sound Carver makes in response. A surprised moan, cut off almost immediately. Carver’s biceps flex as he tightens his grip around the wooden edge of the cot.

 _Void take me._ Anders won’t be able to keep his magic in check if _that_ happens again, and he could cause serious damage so close to Carver’s spine. “I, um—” he starts, voice absurdly rough. “How did this happen?”

“What?” Carver asks, sounding cagey.

“The burns. Were you sent to chase off a nest of dragonlings?” It's such a weak attempt at a joke, he's relieved when Carver doesn't even acknowledge it.

“Oh.” Carver shifts uncomfortably. “It was just a girl. An apprentice, I mean. I was guarding her practice and she lost control.”

“You were in the Gallows?" Anders asks, confused. "Why did you wait so long to take the elfroot?" He plows on when Carver frowns. "I’ve seen scarring like this before. You must have waited at least an hour.”

“Well I couldn’t just bloody get up and leave her, could I?" Carver says stiffly. "Not until she'd calmed down. One of the others would have seen me leaving and gone in. Found her like that...” Traces of an old fury darken his words. “ _Then_ what?”

Anders stills. He knows perfectly well what. He remembers the Templars of Kinloch Hold locking him up whenever he stepped out of line, cutting him off from the Fade with their own brand of spellwork. Drinking lyrium to the point of fetal addiction in order to do it. Their _holy sacrifice_.

He stares at Carver's back. The only way a Circle mage—an _apprentice_ —could have harmed a Templar to such an extent would be if the Templar didn't Silence them.

Maybe because he couldn't.

“Carver,” Anders says slowly. “All this lyrium you keep bringing me…” _it’s yours,_ he wants to say. But something in the hunch of Carver’s shoulders warns him off. The implications ring loudly between them.

"I'm happy to use some of it for this," Anders finishes instead. "And before you complain about that, I _want_ to."

Carver huffs. "Alright," he says, relaxing slightly. "Alright."

Anders crouches to reach Carver's lower back. “Tell me about this mage.”

Carver scoffs. “I swear she’s half wyvern. Rude with the teachers, but it’s usually fine.” He rolls his right shoulder cautiously. "Thinks she knows better than everyone else though.”

Anders splays out his fingers, feeling the firm muscles over Carver's waistband jump at his touch. “Sounds like somebody else I know,” he murmurs.

“Ho now.” Carver chides, then amends: “Maybe. But I’ve never set anyone on fire.”

Anders hums and doesn't say _Perhaps not in the literal sense._ Because Carver is awfully prickly for a shrinking violet and any sort of straight forward flirting might just send him running off half naked through Darktown.

Anders lingers over that visual for a while, chuckling.

"What's so funny?" Carver half turns towards him, a hesitant smile pulling at his lips.

"Nothing. Try stretching your arm over your head. Slowly."

Carver does as he's told, a grin spreading across his face as he reaches his right hand high into the air with ease. 

Anders blinks up at him in surprise. Happiness—real and unguarded—on Carver is so foreign it strikes him. Anders stares and stares and bites his lip.

Carver's expression softens. He turns around fully, bracketing Anders between his legs, and lowers his hand to Anders' shoulder. 

Anders' eyes drop to the hollow below Carver's throat, the dusting of dark hair across his criminally broad chest, the dimpled rows of muscle leading down—

Carver's thumb is rubbing lazy circles through the fabric of Anders' robe, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Anders swallows hard. He rises to his knees to match Carver's height, and it's a bit easier to control his spiralling thoughts. At least until he feels the Templar's pulse jump under his palm, hand still curved around Carver's back.

"Anders," Carver starts, voice low and heavy like a lure. He wraps his other arm around Anders' waist, drawing him closer, legs closing in on either side. And Anders feels unbearably warm; a sudden fever flaring in his gut.

"I don't understand why you became a Templar," Anders blurts out, taking them both by surprise. Carver slides back with a wince, but Anders tightens his own grip before Carver can get up. "Wait."

"For a lecture? I'm not in the mood."

"That's not what I want." Anders gestures vaguely between them, wrapped up around each other like ballroom dancers. "I think a bit of confusion is warranted here."

Carver’s mouth pinches. "Which one of you wants to know?" he asks cautiously.

"Just me."

"I won't end up with a fireball in the face?"

"Carver—"

"Because I've decided I don't like those very much."

Anders sighs. "Not unless you say something truly horrible, which I suppose is always a possibility." He hesitates. "I don't…think I ever bothered getting to know you over the years."

Carver rolls his eyes. "Fat chance of that happening with your head up my brother's arse."

“And there it is. Andraste’s holy bones, you're the most infuriating man I've ever met!”

Carver's grip on his shoulder tightens. That familiar little threat of a smile creeps into view and Anders can see now, up close, just how vehemently Carver tries to smother it. "You just said you don't know me very well."

Anders laughs, startled. He feels unbearably daring with Carver's hands on him. "And yet, I'm certain I don't know anyone quite like you."

"Huh. Is that so?" The sliver of modest space between them shrinks as Carver dips his head to the well of Anders’ throat. He ghosts the tip of his nose up Anders’ neck. "You look good when you relax," he murmurs. "I think you should do it more often." Anders shivers.

"Void take you. Answer my question."

Carver draws back, expression softly resigned. 

"I didn't have a choice," he starts. "Not a real one, anyway. Everything was going tits up—still is." He shifts his weight on the hard cot. "Mages running for their bloody lives in the streets. Turning up dead or worse. Whatever rubbish I might say sometimes; I know it's not _right_ in the Circle. But what could I do to fix it? Swing a sword? Follow my big brother around? Fat bit of good that did me in Ostagar… in _Lothering_." His face twists around something ugly. "I'd take a stinking Blight over Meredith any day, but at least this time I'm doing something useful." 

He picks at a loose thread in Anders' robe and smooths it back down. "You get so angry about the Templars. Enough to make a deal with a damn demon. Anders—" He puts a hand over Anders' mouth, quelling his protest. "If you'd had better Templars in your Circle—at least _one_ who understood mages and cared about you…" He clears his throat. "Maybe it would have been different. Easier." 

Anders frowns but stays silent, mouth still arrested by careful fingers.

"It's a miserable place," Carver continues. "But better me than some brute. I'm helping those mages. I _know_ I am. This way, when the time comes for things to change properly, I'll be there to help."

The hand over Anders' mouth moves to his cheek. "Alright, let's hear it," Carver finishes. "I'm a fool, eh? A traitor?"

Anders isn't sure what to say. Carver's arguments are naive, but they remind him of… himself. Maybe. A glimmer. Before Justice and the Blight. Before his bitterness grew thick and became impenetrable.

His heart aches.

Anders turns his face into Carver's palm, lips brushing over thick calluses and old scars. Carver's breath hitches as a trail of static leaves Anders' mouth to dance across his skin.

"Maybe a fool," Anders mutters through flitting sparks. "But not a completely irredeemable one."

Carver huffs at him, but it's weak. He's sitting perfectly still in Anders' grasp, bending around him, watching his flickering lips with a mounting intensity.

"Hello? Is anybody here?"

Carver jolts upright as though poked in the ribs, back snapping straight and alert as he turns to the curtain. Anders lets his hands fall away from Carver as he stands.

"I'm looking for the healer!" continues the intruder. They sound very young. "Please, it's my friend. He isn't feeling well!"

"I'll be right there," Anders calls back, and there's an answering squeak of surprise from beyond. He shouldn't have sent Nora and the others away so early, but Carver was due back and he'd wanted… well.

Carver gets slowly to his feet, crowding in close in the tight quarters. Their chests would touch on a full inhale.

Carver brushes a few stray hairs from Anders' brow with a finger that trails down to hook under his jaw. "I'll be back with more soon,” he says quietly.

Anders hesitates. "Be careful."

There's that half smile again, the real one Carver tries to hide. He doesn't answer, but his gaze lingers on Anders' eyes for a heartbeat longer than can be misunderstood, and Anders has to hurry away before it completely overwhelms him.

***

"...after the guard change at dawn."

"Will that be enough time?"

"Depends on Blondie."

"How about it, Anders?"

"He's got that look on his face again!"

"Wait, Daisy—"

Merrill waves a dainty hand in front of his face, breaking his stare into the roaring fireplace. "I think he's broken!"

"Stop that," Anders snaps, swatting at her. She dances away with a string of giggles, using Hawke as a shield. Varric sighs.

The four of them are huddled together in Hawke's cavernous vestibule, warding off the winter chill while they strategize for some minor banditry or revenge or what have you. Anders barely remembers the details. 

Two days have come and gone since he healed Carver's back and they haven't seen each other since. Does Carver ever visit his brother in the middle of the afternoon? He might come bursting through the front door at any moment, shivering, puffing over cold hands. He'd probably stick a few frozen fingers on the back of Anders' neck just to take a piss. _What a bastard._ Or—

"You keep looking off into the distance and smiling!" Merrill crows.

"I do not."

Varric shakes his head. "This is so predictable. Red owes me a silver."

"Can we focus, please?" Hawke says, shooing Merrill away and straightening his bathrobe. "We must get in and out of the sewer tonight, or I'll be out a small fortune."

***

The sewers are disgusting and full of demons. 

They make it out alive, but it's close. Anders hasn't had a full night's sleep in months and Merrill has to shore up his wavering barriers on more than one occasion. He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t so overwhelmingly tired and cold and wet by the time they’re stumbling away from the carnage.

"You'll be buying me drinks until the day I die, Hawke," Varric grumbles as they clamour out of the sewers into a Darktown alleyway, flicking teeth and bits of ichor out of his hair.

"I need a bath," Merrill moans.

They part ways at the crossroads. Varric hangs back and catches Anders' elbow once the others have disappeared.

"Hold up, Blondie. Something tells me you don't have a tub where you live."

Anders is too exhausted to deflect. His robes sag with liquified refuse and the blood of the undead. "I don't."

Varric steers him towards Lowtown. "Come on, I'll buy you a room. And some new clothes, maybe."

***

Anders spends the rest of the afternoon bathing and sleeping, getting up only when the racket from the tavern downstairs grows unbearable.

The Hanged Man is packed with miners and sellswords and fishermen, all shouting over one another. He has to dodge the slopping beer of a dozen dock workers lined up along the staircase, swaying and singing.

"Her titties were nippy, her tongue tied in knots! Oh how did drab Ella ever get those wee tots! Oh… not I! No… not I!"

Isabela waves him over to their usual table, where Aveline and Fenris are already deep into a game of Diamondback.

"We're just waiting on Varric," Aveline says by way of greeting. "Then we'll get the real game started."

Anders dithers. He doesn't really want to spend the night playing cards, but Varric paid for the room until morning and the thought of walking back to his own cold bed sets his jaw clenching.

"You look better than usual," Isabela purrs, stroking his arm. "Less… soggy."

"Yes, the smell of sewage is far less pronounced," Fenris agrees, not looking up. Aveline covers her mouth quickly, frowning a touch too intently at her cards.

"Thank you both!" Anders huffs, turning his chair away to face the fireplace. _Soggy! What does_ that _mean?_

The dock workers stumble through a few more verses of _Fair Ella_ , enough time for Anders to get warm and sleepy again, a hearty fire blazing in the grate. He jerks when someone bumps a tank of ale against his shoulder. 

"For helping me today," Hawke says, proffering him the drink before taking a seat next to Fenris.

It's far more than he usually drinks, but Anders is feeling quite comfortable, watching the flames curl and lick around the darkened wood, dulling his thoughts. The music mellows into something less bawdy and the rhythmic shuffle and tap of the cards is soothing, really, if he's not being asked to participate. He can stay awhile and enjoy this, surely? His tank is soon half empty.

"There's Varric," Isabela says from behind him. " _Varric!_ And what a magnificent creature he's brought along."

"Sorry I'm late. Look who I found wandering the streets."

"I wasn't _wandering the streets._ I was conducting important business when you accosted me and insisted I join you for cards."

 _Carver_. Anders stuffs a delighted smile into his cup, not turning around.

"Hey, do the details really matter?"

"You're more than welcome to conduct your business over _here_ , Carver. I'll help you get warm."

"Excuse me, _I'm_ sitting here."

"Don't be such a spoil-sport, Big Girl."

"It's alright, Aveline," Carver cuts in with a hint of amusement. "I'll take that seat by the fire."

There's some shuffling and scraping of chairs as Carver works his way around the table, dropping into the seat next to Anders, their backs to the others.

"Fancy meeting you here," Carver says merrily, bumping their knees together.

Anders sinks into the blurring pleasure of his presence, limbs buzzing from the alcohol and the fact that Carver's knee hasn't moved away from his. "I hope Varric didn't interrupt anything too important. Petty harassment of the underclass, perhaps?"

"I had some things to drop off in Darktown."

Anders' pulse picks up. He allows his gaze to sweep over Carver unabashedly.

He's traded in his usual vest for a sweater with long woolen sleeves and a high fur collar, nugskin beige and fuzzy. The material stretches tight over his chest and arms; covering the skin Anders had touched and stroked last time they were together.

Carver stretches his arms towards the fire, curling and uncurling stiff fingers in the heat. His smile, turned to the flames, is oddly… shy. 

"How's your back?" Anders asks, casting about for an excuse to keep staring. It must be a painfully long time now, but he doesn't stop.

"Much better."

"I can take a look if it's still bothering you."

Carver turns to smirk at him and _that's more like it._ Their knees press together firmly. "Later," Carver says in a tone that stamps hot coals across Anders’ flushed skin. 

Carver plucks the half-empty tankard out of his loosening grip and drains what's left. " _Ugh._ Did my brother get you this?" He twists in his chair to bark at Hawke, "Oy! Cheapskate! You know no one else can stomach this piss."

"I didn't buy it for _you_. And I don't hear anyone else complaining."

"Actually," Fenris interjects. "I have expressed similar misgivings on several occasions."

"Me too," says Aveline. "You can certainly afford better."

"And aren't we _worth_ the very best, darling?" Isabela asks.

Hawke rounds on Varric. The dwarf shrugs. "Hey, if it's free, I'm not complaining. Even if it is the worst ale in the Free Marches."

"I'll get the next round," Carver announces, cutting off Hawke's indignant spluttering. He draws a few appreciative looks on his way to the bar, and Isabela lets loose a low whistle.

"Remind me again why we don't like him, Hawke?" she asks breezily.

"He's a _Templar_ , Isabela."

The barmaid taking Carver's order blushes furiously as he speaks, pushing her ample breasts together with the sides of her arms.

"And a mighty fine one at that. I'll bet he needs all kinds of creative stress relief."

"None that I care to hear about," Hawke gripes.

The barmaid takes her time filling the six tankards, chatting and smiling and _winking_ at Carver all the while. The back of his neck goes beet red as she hands him the drinks, sliding her index finger over the back of his hand to catch a thin drizzle of foam. She licks it into her mouth, eyes fixed on his.

"Did we not come to play cards?" Fenris asks.

"Hear, hear!" says Aveline.

Varric starts shuffling. "Gonna turn around and join us, Blondie?"

Anders starts. "Uh—yes," he says, rattled. He turns his chair around to face the table. "For a round or two."

Carver passes the new tankards around to a chorus of approval. The ominous, dark pitch froths when Anders agitates it. 

Carver swings his own seat around to join them, leaving considerably less space between himself and Anders than before. The full length of his thigh presses against Anders’ own, firm and direct. There's no mistaking that it's intentional. The contact goes straight to Anders' groin, making him dizzy.

"I think that barmaid likes you," he mutters, taking a tentative sniff of his ale. It's wheaty and bitter, like the rich brews he used to drink with the Wardens in Amaranthine.

Carver regards him steadily, eyes dark and close. "Anders," he deadpans. " _Everybody_ likes me."

Anders chokes a bit around his first sip at that. The ale warms him from the inside out, loosening his neck, his back. He sighs and wiggles his toes. Definitely not piss water.

***

It turns out Carver is extremely bad at Antivan Jack and even worse at Wicked Grace. He seems quite a bit more focused on torturing Anders under the table. 

It starts off innocently enough; a hand dropping to Anders' knee during the second game, Carver's thumb running patiently back and forth along the outside of his leg. It's soothing, tentative.

Then, sometime after their third round of drinks, it dips between Anders' legs, coaxing them to spread further apart. Carver strokes his inner thighs with maddening slowness, as though he were only half aware of it, and Anders has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from writhing. 

They're deep into their fifth game when Carver stretches out his pinky _just so_ , brushing a knuckle against the tip of Anders' aching, neglected erection. Anders' gasps and drops his cards.

The others look up at him with varying degrees of drunken concern, including Carver— _damn him_. The blighted hand slides away to rest innocently on top of the table.

"Everything alright over there?" Varric asks.

"Yes," Anders replies hoarsely, clearing his throat. His head is swimming. He shouldn't have gulped down that last cup so eagerly. "Um—I fold."

"I'm out as well," sighs Aveline.

"Amateurs," Fenris growls, before pushing his whole stack of coins into the pot. "I bet it all."

Everyone but Isabela groans and throws down their cards.

Aveline shifts her focus to Carver. "Did Merin send you her report about the Coterie, by the way?"

Carver nods. "She did. Thanks for that. Saved me a lot of trouble with Ser Cullen."

"He still hasn't forgiven you for that comment about his hair? Really, Carver."

"It was funny!"

"Even so."

Anders doesn’t give a fig that Aveline knows something about Caver’s life that he doesn’t. He leans into Carver's shoulder—a bit more heavily than he intends, but he’s had quite a bit to drink. "What did you say about Cullen's hair?" he asks casually.

Carver flashes him a crooked smile. "I asked if he was using an enchanted helmet. You know, because his hair is always so perfect." Aveline clicks her tongue. "What! It's my duty to sniff out magic wherever it's hiding."

Aveline raises an eyebrow pointedly at Anders, practically glued to his side. "I think you missed a spot there, Templar."

"No idea what you're talking about, Guard Captain," Carver rejoins. 

"I need some water," Anders mumbles, getting shakily to his feet.

He stumbles over to the bar, trying desperately to clear the fog of alcohol dampening his thoughts. Lust and annoyance cloy at him in equal measure, pulling him in opposite directions.

A Templar, _honestly_. Anders! Even a man like Carver. A stupidly brave and rude and stubborn _ass,_ always coming back when he should be running the other way. Anders grips the edges of the bar; begs the rough wood to bite some sense into his spinning head. If he doesn't excise this obsession it will be the death of both of them. _Void_. He can't risk everything he’s been working towards for some…some— 

Somebody comes up behind him, boxing him in on either side with wide, scarred hands. Carver's hips press into Anders' backside as he gets in close, very close.

"Careful there," Carver whispers, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I know you’re allergic to any sort of self-control, but someone's going to notice."

Anders leans back into the solid wall of Carver's chest; moulds their bodies from knee to shoulder. It feels so _bloody good_. "Someone like you?"

Carver huffs. "Hopefully not," he says as he pries one of Anders' hands off the bar. The wood below is sprouting. Languid shoots of bright green in the shape of Anders' hand. "Are you always this reckless when you're drunk?" Carver mutters.

Anders blinks down at the mossy handprint. He hadn't even noticed the mana leaving his body. _Was that you?_

Justice stirs sluggishly, as though weighed beneath a quagmire. **No.**

"No," Anders echoes, bemused. He hasn't heard from the spirit all night. "And I'm not that drunk."

"Just my luck then," Carver sighs. He tugs lightly at Anders' waist. "Come get some fresh air with me."

"What about the others?"

"They'll live. Probably."

Anders looks back at their table. Hawke is arm-wrestling with Isabela while Fenris watches on, looking unimpressed. Aveline is handing Varric a silver, both of them snickering quietly in the corner. No one is paying them any mind.

So Anders follows Carver outside. The cold night air snaps some of his senses back into focus, and he blinks owlishly. The streets are deserted but for a few sleeping vagrants in the alley opposite and a bored-looking guardsman. She nods once to Carver as they exit.

"I have to be back in a couple of hours," Carver says, rubbing his hands together. "But… I want to show you something. Can you contain yourself for just a bit longer?"

“Hmm. I _do_ feel a minor firestorm coming on. You’d better hurry before I sneeze.”

“Funny how unafraid of me you are,” Carver quips. He leads Anders down a labyrinth of dark streets winding steadily downhill. 

“Is it funny? But you’re such a sweet, polite boy.” Anders stumbles over a set of uneven cobblestones. “Completely harmless.”

“You’re just lucky we have more pressing concerns than a skinny apostate living in the sewers.” A soft breeze picks at Carver’s hair, carrying hints of salt and fish.

“Yes, thank the Maker you’re all too busy harassing the mages who _aren’t_ any real threat. Are you taking me to the docks?”

Carver doesn’t answer, just beckons him forward down another narrow road.

The oppressive grey stonework of Kirkwall gives way to open boardwalk, lined with rows of slanted shanties and sealed merchant stalls. Carver pulls Anders into a dead-end overlooking the harbour.

The sun has yet to rise, but the sky over the Waking Sea is already lightning from black to grey. Countless ships and nugboats bob and snag at their tethers, masts swaying like a gloomy forest. Their faded flags of Kirkwall and impressive far-flung cities snap menacingly in the breeze.

“Is this it?” Anders gripes, pulling his collar more tightly around his neck. The wind fusses at their clothing, harsher out here in the open than behind the city walls. Carver is stiff and silent beside him, which is absolutely wretched. He’s a bully in a good mood, and they’d been on such a terrific roll a moment ago. Where had all the pleasantries gone? And the port is eerie this early in the morning, devoid of its usual vulgar bustle. The Weeping Twins tower above it all, solemn and foreboding.

"In Lothering,” Carver starts, and Anders goes still. He can count on one hand the number of times he's heard Carver speak of his life in Ferelden. “I used to wake up before everyone else. Had to get all the fieldwork done before the sun got too high. Bloody hot in the summer—I suppose you know that. But I didn't mind it, I liked having the sunrises to myself." He squints out across the water, studiously ignoring Anders’ gaze. 

"I couldn’t see them from Gamlen's old shithole when we first arrived," Carver continues, some degree of affection softening the oath. "I didn’t even realize at first. Then I came down here one morning for some of that pickled cherryfruit mum liked and, well. I guess it’s the same everywhere, isn’t it?"

A cap of brilliant white peaks over the horizon, casting long fingers through a fleet of thinning clouds. The blaze travels over the water and crawls up the feet of the Weeping Twins, their tarnished bronze bodies bleeding rose and gold.

Anders manages to withhold his commentary for three whole seconds. Sniping is what passes for politeness between them. “I bet you get a nice view of it from the Gallows. If you can block out all the crying, of course.”

Carver groans. "You _would_ find a way to ruin it."

“It’s a beautiful story, Carver, perhaps you should bring Varric here next time."

“Go suck an egg,” Carver grumbles, a deceitful little twist tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Anders leans up and kisses it. 

He does it without thinking, resting his lips lightly over the plumb of Carver's mouth. The contact melts through him like the rich Fereldan ale, warm and perfect.

He drops away quickly, heart hitching in panic. 

Carver doesn’t move. He blinks down at Anders’ mouth, lips parting into a small _oh_. 

Then he stirs and inhales deeply and wraps his arms around Anders’ back, pulling Anders flush against his chest. He brings their mouths together once more, sure and confident, and Anders lets out a little moan of surprise as raw pleasure lances through him. He arches up into Carver's embrace, stroking shaking hands over his broad shoulders; his throat; his back.

Carver breaks the kiss—breath heavy between them— to stare down into Anders' face. The silence ripens into the cusp of something Anders has never felt before. It sets his skin on fire. He runs his fingers through Carver's thick, black hair to dispel the sudden anxiety that thickens his throat.

Only Carver's hair is so much _softer_ than he was expecting, it startles a snort out of him.

"Anders," Carver warns, dipping his head to kiss a line down Anders' throat. " _Anders_. Are you laughing at me?" A hard thigh slides between Anders' legs as hands drift to the small of his back. They tug at him gently, encouraging him to press closer, which he does— _Maker_ —of course he does.

"Yes," Anders gasps. He tilts Carver's face back up to his and Carver deepens the kiss heartily, an edge of desperation in the sharp hints of teeth. Anders opens for it wondrously, his mind humming with a mantra as their tongues slide together. _Maker. Oh. Maker._ His insides constrict around the full brunt of his desire, the crux of their bodies folding together in hard, straining peaks.

The morning bell rings out across the harbour, harsh in the early quiet, making them both flinch.

" _Tits_ ," Carver curses, fingers fumbling around a buckle on the front of Anders' robes. Anders hadn't even noticed he was undoing them and he's already on the fourth clasp.

Anders claps a hand over Carver's mouth. "You know that's not what you're going to find under there," he whispers, to which he receives a sinfully attractive glare. Carver starts kissing his palm—mouthing at it obscenely. The thigh between Anders' legs rocks firmly upward and he's so hard it hurts. " _Oh_ , don't do that again." 

Carver does, of course, and Anders moans brokenly, burying his face in Carver's shoulder. He can feel Carver's smirk against his fingers. 

Up and down the docks, the oarsmen of Kirkwall are beginning to sound off their dawn roll call. A brisk shorthand that sets the day's business irrevocably in motion. It won't be long before they have company. 

Anders releases Carver's mouth and hastens to redo his buckles. He bungles the job terribly, his hands shaking. And Carver is no help at all, loosening his grip on Anders by painstaking degrees, kissing along his jaw.

"Don’t you have somewhere to be?" Anders asks breathlessly.

Carver releases him at last, and the cold air that replaces his embrace makes for a rude substitute. Anders has to check himself from reaching out again on instinct.

Carver peeks around the lip of the alley. “My next patrol isn’t for another week,” he says, and Anders doesn’t miss the unsteadiness in his tone or the red still colouring his ears. “Shit, you picked a bloody inconvenient time to get this started.”

“Me? You brought us here to watch the sunrise!”

“I didn’t think that would _work_. Would've tried it weeks ago if I'd known what a massive sap you are.”

“I wasn’t the one waxing on about Ferelden fieldwork. _Maker_ , you were an actual dog lord, weren’t you. Get away from me.”

Carver laughs. Two sharp exclamations that light up his whole face. He pulls Anders in for another fierce, bruising kiss before he’s spinning back on his heel; disappearing into the maze of cobbled streets and creeping mist of dawn.

Leaving Anders to stare after him, utterly bemused.

**Author's Note:**

> I am very late to this rarepair fandom. Comments are cherished!


End file.
